Chapter VI At the Sign of Chicory Hall
I have several times mentioned “hang-out.” Most of these “hang-outs” were ginmills (saloons) of the better class, but the real Bowery Bohemian chose odd spots for his haunts. The most unique resort in this Bohemia of the nether world was at Chicory Hall, where my particular gang had established itself.
It was a basement at the corner of Fourth street and Bowery. Originally a bakeshop, it had been unoccupied for some time, until a coffee merchant rented it to prepare his chicory there. One man constituted the entire working force of the plant, and it so happened that Tom Noseley, the chicory baker, was imbued with sporting proclivities.
Do not let us forget that, at the time, the prize-fighter was a man of consequence to the youths of the East Side. To know a pugilist, to have spoken to him, to have shaken his hand, was an event never to be forgotten.
Tom Noseley was a very young man. In the immediate neighborhood of his basement were many “sporting-houses.” Tom Noseley was earning eighteen dollars a week. What is more natural than that one of sporting proclivities should become an enthusiastic patron of “sporting-houses”?
Tom Noseley wanted to number some well-known pugilists among his acquaintances. Several well-known pugilists, I among the number, did not resent his many invitations to drink with him, and, ere long, the dream of Noseley seemed fully realized, for we consented, after much coaxing, to call at his basement for the pleasant task of “rushing the growler.”
Our first call at the cellar convinced us of its many attractions. It seemed just the place for an ideal “hang-out.” Then, also, there was Tom Noseley’s weekly stipend of eighteen dollars a week, which he was willing to spend to the last cent for the “furthering of sport.”
Tom Noseley was a hunter of Bowery lions. I have been told that in higher social strata different lions are hunted by different hunters. Still, the species do not differ very much from each other.
Men who had “done” a long term in prison; men who had a reputation for crookedness; men who were known to make their living without having to descend to the ignoble manner of working for it, all these had been fads of Noseley. Then, the sporting spirit of the Bowery flared up with great spluttering, and Noseley, for the nonce, took the poor, shiftless boxers to his heart of hearts.
We named the cellar “Chicory Hall,” and quickly succeeded in making it known.
The cellar consisted of two large rooms. Descending from Fourth street, about a dozen steps led to the bakeshop. Four small windows, grimed with impenetrable dirt, suggested the presence of light. The sunlight or cloudy sky found no token there. At night one dim flame of gas gave a sort of humorous weirdness to the filthy hole.
Adjoining the bakeshop was a dark apartment of the same size as the first room, used as storing place for the bags of bran, which were used in the manufactory of chicory. Shortly after establishing our headquarters at Chicory Hall, we chose the storage room as our sleeping chamber, making unwieldy couches from the heavy, unclean bags.
Certainly we had conveniences, a “front room” and a “bedroom,” what more could we desire? And we appreciated it. Did not I, myself, spend ten entire days and nights in Chicory Hall without ever leaving it?
But while Tom Noseley’s eighteen dollars a week, earned by his intermittent labors in baking chicory, were not to be despised as the substantial nucleus of our treasury, they were not enough to provide a little food and much drink for about six able-bodied prizefighters out of work. The regular staff included Jerry Slattery, the Limerick Terror; Mike Ryan, the Montana Giant; Tom Green and his brother, Patsy Green; Charlie Carroll and myself.
On Saturday, Tom Noseley’s pay day, two or three of the staff appointed themselves a committee to accompany our host to the office and to prevent him from falling into other hands. His return was celebrated by feasting on many pounds of raw chopped meat and drinking many gallons of beer. Sunday morning found the exchequer very much depleted, containing, perhaps, just enough to reflicker our drooping and aching spirits by purchasing several pints of the vilest fusel oil, parading under the name of whiskey, ever manufactured.
Sabbath day, the day of rest, as appointed by the Master, was spent by us in quiet peace. That the peace was a consequence of the turbulent hilarity of the night before, and not a desire to live according to divine dictates is a mere detail.
At the beginning of our sojourn at Chicory Hall our feast of Saturday was generally followed by a famine until the next week’s end. This was somewhat palliated by a happy inspiration of “Lamby,” a character of the locality.
“Lamby”—no one knew him by any other name—had some mysterious hiding and sleeping place, but was infatuated with our Subterranean Bohemia and spent all his spare time—which practically was all his time, excepting the hours dedicated to sleep—with the Knights of Chicory Hall. He was a boy of about seventeen years of age, over six foot tall, of piping voice and full of most unexpected opinions and ideas.
There was good stuff in “Lamby,” as in many of the East Side boys, who are, by environment and circumstances, led into evil, or, at least, useless lives. “Lamby’s” heart was bigger than all his carcass. To be his friend, meant that “Lamby” thought it his duty to give three-fourths of all his temporary possessions to the cementing of this friendship.
I made “Lamby’s” acquaintance under inconvenient conditions. He was not yet entitled to vote. This did not prevent him from formulating the strongest opinions on political personages and principles. During the election which made me acquainted with him, “Lamby” for some unknown reason, was doing the most enthusiastic individual “stumping” for the candidate of one of the labor parties. It was conceded by the supporters of the labor ticket that the candidate in question stood absolutely no chance of being elected and that their entire list of nominees was only in the field as a means of making propaganda, of paving the way for future possibilities. All this did not deter “Lamby” from sounding the labor-man’s praises on all and every occasion.
In one of his many eulogies “Lamby” was opposed by a ward-heeler of the local organization, who laughing offered to bet any amount that the much praised candidate would not poll fifty votes. This roused the ire of the champion of labor.
“Say,” cried “Lamby” at his adversary, “you know I ain’t got no money to bet and that’s why you’re so anxious to bet me. If you’re on the level in this, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You put up your money and if Kaltwasser don’t get elected I won’t speak to no human being for a month.”
The politician accepted this odd bet and, a few weeks later, “Lamby,” by his own decree, found himself sentenced to one month’s silence.
And “Lamby” loved to talk!
It was a fearful dilemma, but leave it to a Bowery boy to wriggle out of a scrape.
In one of his rambles, “Lamby” had met Rags, and, impressed by some similarity in their appearance and disposition, had appointed him forthwith his chum and inseparable companion.
Rags was a cur of nondescript origin and breed. His long, wobbly and ungainly legs barely balanced a long and shaggy body, draped with a frowsy, kaleidoscopic mass of wiry hair. The color of Rags’ eyes could not be determined, bangs of matted locks wholly screening them from view.
For some obscure reason, “Lamby” conceived the idea that the use of the lower extremities would prove injurious to Rags, and the mongrel—surely weighing at least fifty pounds—spent most of his time in the loving arms of his adoring friend.
The opportunity to return some of his friend’s devotion, by making himself useful to him, came to Rags during the period in which “Lamby’s” tongue was restrained from its favorite function for a month of silence. “Lamby’s” pledge not to speak to a human being for a month was never broken, but he found a way of expressing himself to Rags in such loud and distinct tones that no one had any difficulty in following the train of conversation.
There was so much ingenuity in the plan that the ward politician declared the bet off and presented “Lamby” with a part of the stake money.
On a Monday, when the feast of Saturday was but a sweet memory and the famine of the week had set in with convincing force, Tom Noseley and his staff of friends—including “Lamby” and Rags, who hugged the shadowy recess of a corner—sat disconsolately in the dingy dimness of Chicory Hall.
“Ain’t none of you fellows got any money at all?” queried Jerry Slattery against hope.
The question was too absurd to deserve an answer.
“Well, what are we going to do?” pursued the Limerick Terror; “I’m hungry as blazes and can’t stand this any longer. Nothing to eat and nothing to drink; this is worse than being on the bum in the country among the hayseeds. If I don’t get something here pretty soon, I’ll go out into the Bowery and see if I can’t pick up something.”
The harangue passed our ears without comment. More deep and dark silence. Then everybody turned to where “Lamby’s” preambling cough heralded a monologistic dialogue.
“Rags,” began the silent sage of Chicory Hall, “what would you and me do, if we was hungry and wasn’t as delicate as we are? Wouldn’t you and me go up to Lafayette alley and look them chickens over that don’t seem to belong to nobody? Couldn’t you and me use them in the shape of one o’ them nice chicken stews with plenty of potatoes and onions in it? Ain’t it too bad that you and me is too delicate to be chasing round after them chickens and that we aren’t allowed to speak so’s we could tell other people how to get a meal that’ll tickle them to death?”
Bully “Lamby.”
In less than five minutes a small, but determined gang of marauders made their stealthy way through Lafayette alley. Every one of the husky pilferers endeavored to shrink his big body into the smallest compass. The alley ended in a hamlet of ramshackle stables in the rear of a famous bathing establishment. The place was deserted in day time as all men and animal occupants were in the streets pursuing the energetic calling of peddling. As said, the place was deserted, save for those chickens. Dating from our first call, the chickens, young and old, began to disappear.
For over a week we feasted on chicken. We had them in all known styles of cooking. Our bill of fare included fried, baked, stewed, broiled and fricasseed chicken. But a day came when naught was left of the flock of chicks excepting one big, black rooster.
I shall never forget him, because it was my fate to be his captor.
He surely was a general of no mean order. We had often hunted him, but he had always succeeded in eluding us by some cleverly executed movement.
This survivor of his race irritated my determination and, supported and flanked by my cohorts, I set out to exterminate the last of the clan. Sounding his defy in many cackles and muffled crows the black hero raced up and down the yard, dodging, whenever possible, under some of the unused wagons and trucks standing about. But escape was impossible.
Driven into a corner he faced me and my bag with splendid heroism. He met the lowering deathtrap by an angry leap, and, when I and bag fell on top of him, we were greeted by a shower of furious picking and clawing.
Oh, brave descendant of a brave ancestry, nobly did you meet the inevitable fate! You were never born to be eaten; you were the tough son of a tough father! First, you fought right splendidly against being captured, then, you resisted most stubbornly against being devoured! Boiled, stewed, fried, hashed, you remained tough, and, even in death, you defied us! You escaped the destiny of your weaker brethren, for you were never eaten!
Chicken coops are not many on the Bowery. Having found and demolished the feathered oasis, we were again reduced to dire straits.
Again “Lamby” proved our rescuer.
He and Rags, with the story of the extraordinary bet, were discovered by a reporter and given due fame in the press. “Lamby” and Rags became celebrities and deigned to receive their many callers in the attractive reception room of Chicory Hall. A trifle of the glamor reflected on us, the minor characters in the comedy, and visitors became quite frequent to behold the “truly charming, typical Bohemia of the nether world.”
But visitors will not call again unless you make their first visit entertaining. How could we entertain them? Not one of us was as yet of a literary turn of mind, and were not prepared to offer readings or selections from Shakespeare, Lowell or Browning. Some of us were quite renowned as comedians, but it is very doubtful if our humor would have appealed to the class of people honoring us with their visits. There was nothing left to do but to offer entertainment in the only line in which we all were proficient. The reception room of Chicory Hall became an impromptu arena and fights were fought down there which, for ferociousness and bloody stubbornness have never been beaten.
It would be quite logical to suppose here that our visitors were of the rowdy element, and all of the male sex. I wish I could tell you differently, but the truth of the matter is that the “very best families” were represented at our nocturnal seances by younger members of both sexes.
In the course of time Chicory Hall became quite a “sight place,” and it was nothing unusual to see a string of carriages and coaches in front of the humble entrance to the subterranean Bohemia. Would I were a Balzac to describe to you an evening at Chicory Hall.
At the foot of the stairs was a circle marked on the floor with chalk. No one save the regular members of the staff were permitted to enter the sacred precincts without depositing a “voluntary” contribution in the circle. Corresponding to the amount gathered by the circle was the degree of entertainment.
On a row of boxes, crippled chairs, upturned pails and other makeshift seats, the guests were served with drinks at their own expense pending the preliminaries. Above their heads, traced with white paint on grimy walls, was this legend in straggling letters:
“WELCOME TO CHICORY HALL!”
With our increasing prosperity came needed improvements, and the solitary gas light was reinforced by a murky smelling kerosene lamp, which I can never remember having seen topped by an uncracked chimney. The door, on account of the lively proceedings within, had to be kept shut, and you can easily imagine the atmosphere in the cellar, there being no ventilation.
Still our guests kept coming and truly enjoyed themselves because “it was all so charmingly realistic and odd.”
Being the most steady member of Chicory and rarely absent from the hall, it was quite natural that I took part in most of the “goes” in the cellar. I felt myself in my element. Neither the Marquis of Queensberry or the London prize ring rules were rigidly enforced, and my viciousness had full scope, our guests—men and women of the “better” class—liking nothing so well as a “knockout finish.”
Mainly through my savageness the last vestige of regulated fighting disappeared from our “set-tos,” and our performances fell to the level of “go-as-you-please” scrimmages. My reputation as a precious brute increased rapidly, and again a certain set of men saw a probability in me.
I was asked if I would fight anything and anybody under any conditions. An easy question to answer for a man, who, in the fullest possession of all his strength, had no knowledge of any other controlling influence than his brutal instinct.
Not knowing or caring who my opponent was to be, I left all arrangements to the enthusiasts, and in due time was introduced to Mr. Mickey Davis, who had the great honor of being the champion rough and tumble fighter of New York.
These were the conditions of our meeting: We were to be locked in a room, with the privilege of using any means of defeating each other. Of course, weapons were excluded, but any other pleasantries like biting, clawing, choking, gouging, were not only allowed, but really essential. He who first begged to have the door unlocked and to be taken from the room was the loser.
I held the championship for some time. In fact, I relinquished it voluntarily not long afterward on account of several changes which occurred in my life.
I should not blame you in the least were you to feel disgust and contempt for me for writing of it and for seemingly to glory in it. Your disgust is justified, your contempt is not. I myself am disgusted with my past and its several stages of degradation, but I have pledged myself to tell you the truth, and I am doing and will do it.
Perhaps you may despise me for it, but put yourself in my place and you will be less severe. There was something brewing and fermenting within me which wanted to assert itself. I wanted to be somebody; to be successful. It is a frank confession.
Will you blame a blind man for choosing the wrong path at the crossroads? Will you not, instead, lead him in the right direction?
Was I not blind when I stood on life’s highway and could not see the pointed finger which read: “To Decency, Usefulness and Manhood”?
And there was no one to lead me.
Yes, criticise, sneer, if you will, but do not forget that in my life there had been no parental love or guidance and no moral influence.
The attaining of my championship revived the interest of the “sporting set” of the Bowery in me, and several flattering offers were made to me by certain dive-keepers. I changed from place to place and left such a trail of noble deeds behind me that ere long I found myself a real, genuine celebrity and a man with a name.
I never had any difficulty in getting work at my calling—that of a “bouncer,” called, for the sake of politeness, “floor manager,” as my connection with any place meant additional customers. I was splendidly equipped for the position, and my fame kept steadily increasing until I thought myself on the sure road to success.
I reasoned the case with myself and drew the following deductions: I was feared because of my brutality; I was respected because of my “squareness,” which had never been severely tempted; I had more money than ever before; I was wearing well-made, if flashy, clothes; the grumbling envy of my less fortunate fellows and chums sang like a sweet refrain in my ears; I was strong, vicious and healthy. Why, why shouldn’t I consider myself successful?